Mistaken For A Lady. Carol Townend
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otherwise, but he couldn’t stop wondering. How well do I know her? Has the charming girl become a calculating woman?
Tristan gripped his steward’s shoulder. ‘My thanks for your continuing loyalty, Ernis.’
‘You are welcome, my lord. I shall see to it the food is packed and given to Bastian.’
Tristan left Ernis and strode briskly across the yard. He wanted to see the main bedchamber before they set out. He’d not seen it in years and what Ernis had said about Francesca’s plans to visit Monfort had roused his curiosity.
As Tristan passed through the hall, he noticed for the first time the polished side-table and the smell of beeswax. He paused to take stock. There were changes since his last visit. Hundreds of miles from his county in Brittany, Paimpont was his most outlying manor. It had always looked rather run-down. Unlived in. Tristan’s father had neglected it and Tristan had always intended to make up for that. Yet events had conspired against him and somehow he’d never been able to give Paimpont the attention it deserved. Yet now—the floor was strewn with fresh rushes; the cloth on the trestle table was crisp and white; and a jug of wild flowers sat in the centre, next to a polished silver candle stand. The hall had never looked so welcoming. His mouth went up at a corner. This wasn’t the work of Sir Ernis. Clearly, Francesca hadn’t been idle.
Upstairs, Tristan pushed through the bedchamber door and blinked at the travelling chests lined up against the wall. They weren’t locked. Frowning, he flipped back the lid of one and peered in. Surely, these were her best gowns? Dropping to his knees, he turned them over. Here was the lavender gown she had worn on their wedding day. And this, surely this was the brocade cloak he had given her? Opening a cream leather pouch, he drew out a silver circlet set with amethysts. He’d given her this as his wedding gift.
Replacing the circlet where he’d found it, he shoved back another lid. Her Bible was tucked in between two other gowns; a coral necklace was wrapped in a woollen shawl. He recalled her telling him that Count Myrrdin had given her the necklace when she’d been a child. He opened the last coffer and found yet more of her treasures. A bone-handled eating knife; a beaded necklace; a scrap of finely worked embroidery. Francesca’s belongings, reduced to three travelling chests. His frown deepened.
The trip she’d been planning had been more than any visit, she’d been leaving for good.
Well, not if he could help it, not with so much unfinished business between them.
He rubbed his chin, struck by a strange thought. Perhaps he should shoulder some of the blame for Francesca’s disappearance from Brittany. He’d never told her how much he appreciated her. And in not wishing her to be frightened by the dangers posed by the conflict between King Henry and his sons, he’d not explained how vital it was that the duchy had his support.
He’d kept other things from her too, important personal matters. He’d never told her about Esmerée—his mistress before his marriage to Francesca.
Naturally, Tristan had ended his relationship with Esmerée before he’d met Francesca. Indeed, Esmerée was now happily married to Tristan’s greatest friend, Sir Roparz de Fougères. None the less, perhaps he should have told Francesca about her. His only excuse was that Francesca had been so young when they’d married. She’d been so innocent. And so adoring. Tristan had never had anyone look up to him in that way and he’d been afraid of destroying it.
Should he have told her about Esmerée? His relationship with Esmerée had been purely physical, there had never been that disturbing sense of recognition and belonging that he’d felt with Francesca. He’d not seen any reason to mention past liaisons to his innocent wife.
He grimaced, he’d been deceiving himself, there had been consequences to his relationship with Esmerée. Esmerée had given birth to Kristina—his daughter and only child—and the moment she had done so, he should have told Francesca.
I should have told Francesca about Esmerée and I should have told her that I have a daughter.
However, it wasn’t that simple. Tristan intended to acknowledge Kristina as his, but the continuing unrest in Brittany had been to blame for his silence. If the rebel alliance had got wind of the fact that the Count of the Isles had an illegitimate daughter, Kristina’s life might have been put in jeopardy. Thus far only three people knew the truth—himself, Esmerée and his friend Roparz.
However, with the alliance broken and peace more or less restored, the need for discretion regarding Kristina was no longer so urgent. He was free to tell Francesca about her.
Except what was the point in him telling her? With them both considering divorce, did it matter?
He closed the chest with a thud and swore under his breath. It mattered. For some unfathomable reason he wanted Francesca to know about Kristina.
Obviously, he couldn’t tell her immediately, she had enough on her mind with Count Myrrdin’s illness. Soon though.
Yes, he would tell her about his daughter after she had bid farewell to Count Myrrdin—Papa, as she called him.
Tight-lipped, Tristan pushed to his feet and went to the top of the stairwell. ‘Ernis, are you still in the hall? Ernis!’
Heavy boots sounded on the boards below. ‘My lord?’
‘Secure Lady Francesca’s coffers and have them sent on after us, will you? No need to send them to Fontaine, they can go directly to des Iles with your next report.’
It was a glorious spring day as Francesca and Tristan clattered on to the highway ahead of Bastian and Mari. A handful of clouds meandered across the sky, the hawthorn bushes were bursting into leaf and the hedgerows were alive with sparrows.
‘You’re still riding Flint, I see,’ Francesca said, glancing at Tristan’s raw-boned grey.
‘He suits me.’ Expression softening, Tristan gestured at Francesca’s mare. ‘I see you kept Princess. I did wonder. Thought you might have left her behind.’
‘She’s perfect, I would have been mad to leave her in Brittany.’ Francesca folded her lips firmly together. In truth, Tristan had given Princess to her at their betrothal. She was a glossy black and much adored. Francesca was reluctant to reveal exactly how much the horse meant to her. Every time she rode her, which was often, she thought of Tristan.
Tristan gave her a brusque nod, leaving Francesca to wonder whether she had imagined the softness in his expression.
‘I’d like to make the most of this weather,’ he said, giving the heel to Flint. ‘It won’t stay dry for ever, and a dry road is infinitely preferable to having the horses slog through acres of mud.’
Francesca urged Princess on. Her heart was heavy. Count Myrrdin had played such a large part in her life. She hadn’t seen him in two years and yet he lived in her mind as though they’d spoken only yesterday. For eighteen years she had adored him as a loving and generous father.
The count had many eccentricities—the forgetfulness which seemed so at odds with the way he never failed to revere the memory of his beloved wife, Countess Mathilde; the wildness of his snowy-white hair and beard; his extraordinary mismatched eyes—one grey, one green. Each eccentricity merely served to point up what a quirky, lovable man he was. The day that Francesca had discovered that Count Myrrdin was not her father had been bleak indeed.
Her life had, quite simply, fallen apart. At a stroke, she’d lost a beloved father and she’d lost her place in the world. It had been well-nigh impossible to accept that she had no connections with Fontaine whatsoever. She was a changeling and her standing as a noblewoman was nothing but a lie. She cast a sidelong glance at Tristan—she’d lost the respect of her husband too. With not a drop of noble blood flowing through her veins, she had lost her purpose in life.
However, this was not the time to dwell on her disastrously inappropriate